Born to Run

Chapter 10: Whiskey

Brigitte smiled as she stroked the whiskey bottle. She closed her eyes and listened to the sound of creaking beds as the palace began to prepare for slumber. It would be three hours at most before the palace would be dead silent. With the exception, of course, of the Prince’s room, if all went well. Then, Brigitte would be the only one he would see. No distractions. He’d fall in love with her, and beg her to marry him. No matter that he was a favourite of the King. He’d ruin any reputation once he caught sight of her.

She set the unopened bottle down. This moment would not be ruined. He wouldn’t touch her, of course. Just drink her in with his eyes. Then that would be enough.

Her nightgown had been laid on the bed. She was still in her uniform for the Prince. Regrettably, she could not wear anything else but the black and white outfit. A shame, really. But Mama had said that she looked pretty in uniform. Had she not been the one to boast that her very own daughter worked in the palace?

Brigitte sighed. The time ticked away too slowly. Three hours was far too long. Resting her chin on her hand, Brigitte stared out the window. No matter. Soon she would be with her beloved—and a bottle of whiskey.  

(#)

Annoyed, Esme groaned at the sound of a knock on her chamber door. She flung the quilt aside, and swung her legs over the side of her bed. Grabbing a shawl to cover herself, she hurried over the door. “Yes?” she asked, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “How might I help you?”

A pale and frightened little maid looked up at her with saucer-sized eyes. “‘Tis the mistress, ma’am. She will not go ta sleep, ya see.” She nervously tugged at her apron. “She was a-callin’ for ye.”

Esme tried to keep the annoyed look from her expression. Such emotions were not to be displayed when the object was a daughter of the King’s advisor, to be sure. “You go ahead. I will come.”

The little maid bobbed a curtsy and left. Esme closed the door and walked over to her desk. She lit a candle and brought it with her as she walked through the eerie corridors of the palace. It was not as pretty under the moonlight, and because the moon was half full, she could barely see four paces ahead, even with the candle. Esme thought of what Fitz would have said had he been with her, but then caught herself. It would not do to be dreaming about Fitz now, would it?

She climbed a staircase, glad that she knew where Lizzie’s bedroom was. It had been a few weeks now and finally Esme was beginning to get a good idea of where everything was. She shuddered as she passed the advisor’s quarters. Though she could not place it, the hair on her arms stood every time Sir Mansfield walked past her. She probably was hallucinating… But could that sense of something deeply evil simply be imagined?

Mr Mansfield was a great deal like his father, and that fact scared her. Had Sir Mansfield been as flirtatious and impulsive?

A few doors down was the Prince’s room. She had never been in it before, and Esme was very glad that Mr Mansfield had yet to give her a reason to be there. The flame began to sputter as a cool draft wafted through the corridor, and then was finally put out. “Well done, Miss Esme. Now you have to knock on Mr Mansfield’s door to ask for flame,” she muttered to herself. Maybe she could find her way to Lizzie’s room with just her memory? Esme held out her arms to make sure that she didn’t collide with anything, and took a step forward, standing right at Mr Mansfield’s bedroom door. She heard a female voice. “Your whiskey, milord,” it said softly. Odd, it sounded familiar.

There was no reply. Just something that sounded like a groan, and then a bed creak as Mr Mansfield got out of bed. She heard movement, and then a protest from the girl. “Please, milord! Do not touch me, sir!”